UC-NRLF 


$B    25^    B31 


CO 
o 

>~ 


UNIVERSITY 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.archive.org/details/fislistoriesOOabboricli 


Fish  Stories 


By 
HENRY  ABBOTT 


NEW  YORK 
1919 


Copyright  1919 

By 

HENRY  ABBOTT 


Preface 


AN  ALLEGED  humorist  once  proposed  the 
-  query,  "Are  all  fishermen  liars,  or  do  only- 
liars  go  fishing?"  This  does  not  seem  to  me  to  be 
funny.  It  is  doubtless  true  that  a  cynical  atti- 
tude of  suspicion  and  doubt  is  often  exhibited 
on  the  recital  of  a  fishing  exploit.  I  believe  the 
joke  editors  of  magazines  and  newspapers  are 
responsible  for  the  spread  of  the  propaganda  of 
ridicule,  skepticism  and  distrust  of  all  fish  yarns, 
regardless  of  their  source.  The  same  fellows 
have  a  day  of  reckoning  ahead,  for  the  circula- 
tion of  that  ancient  but  still  overworked  mother- 
in-law  joke. 

It  is  quite  possible  that  some  amateur  fisher- 
men, wishing  to  pose  as  experts,  are  guilty  of 
expanding  the  size  or  number  of  their  catch, 
upon  reporting  the  same.  But  I  cannot  con- 
ceive of  a  motive  sufficient  to  induce  one  skilled 
in  handling  the  rod  to  lie  about  his  fish.  The 
truth  always  sounds  better  and  in  the  case  of  a 
fish  story,  truth  is  often  stranger  than  any  fish 
fiction. 

In  my  own  experience  and  observation  I  have 
found  that  the  more  improbable  a  fish  story 
sounds  the  more  likely  it  is  to  be  true.    The  in- 

3 


credulous  attitude  of  the  average  auditor,  also, 
is  discouraging,  and  often  reacts  against  him- 
self, as  thus  some  of  the  very  best  fish  stories  are 
never  told.  To  me,  it  seems  a  pity  that  through 
these  Huns  of  history  many  charming  and  in- 
structive tales  of  adventure  should  be  lost  to 
literature  and  to  the  unoffending  part  of  the 
public. 

The  fellows  whose  exploits  are  here  set  down, 
seldom  mention  their  fishing  experiences.  They 
are  not  boastful,  and  never  exaggerate.  They 
do  not  speak  our  language.  I  have,  therefore, 
undertaken  to  tell  their  fish  stories  for  them. 

H.  A. 


Fish  Stories 

by 
Henry  Abbott 

BIGE  had  the  oars  and  was  gently 
I  and  without  a  splash  dipping 
them  into  the  water,  while  the 
boat  slowly  glided  along  parallel  to  the 
shore  of  the  lake.  We  had  been  up 
around  the  big  island  and  were  crossing 
the  bay  at  the  mouth  of  Bald  Mountain 
Brook,  which  is  the  outlet  of  the  pond 
of  that  name,  located  in  a  bowl  shaped 
pocket  on  the  shoulder  of  Bald  Mountain 
three  miles  away.  I  was  in  the  stern 
seat  of  the  boat  with  a  rod  and  was  cast- 
ing toward  the  shore,  hoping  to  lure  the 
wily  bass  from  his  hiding  place  under 
rocky  ledge  or  lily  pad,  when  I  dis- 
covered another  and  a  rival  fisherman. 

He  was  operating  with  an  aeroplane 
directly  over  our  heads  and  about  two 

5 


The  Osprey 


hundred  feet  above  the  lake.  Slowly 
sailing  in  circles,  with  an  occasional  lazy- 
flap  of  wings  to  maintain  his  altitude, 
and  at  intervals  uttering  his  sharp, 
piercing,  hunting  cry,  the  osprey  had  a 
distinct  advantage  over  us,  as  with  his 
telescopic  eye  he  could  penetrate  the 
lake  to  its  bottom  and  could  distinctly 
6 


see  everything  animate  and  inanimate 
in  the  water  within  his  hunting  circle. 
He  could  thus,  accurately,  locate  his 
prey,  while  we  could  not  see  deeply  into 
the  water  and  were  always  guessing. 
We  might  make  a  hundred  casts  in  as 
many  places,  where  no  bass  had  been 
for  hours.  So  I  reeled  in  my  line,  laid 
the  rod  down  in  the  boat  and  gave  my 
entire  attention  to  watching  the  opera- 
tions of  the  fish  hawk. 

For  about  ten  minutes  the  aeroplane 
fisher  continued  to  rotate  overhead; 
then  I  observed  that  the  circles  were 
smaller  in  diameter,  and  were  descend- 
ing in  corkscrew  curves,  until  from  a 
height  of  about  fifty  feet  the  body  of  the 
bird  shot  straight  down  and  struck  the 
water  about  twenty-five  yards  from  our 
boat  with  the  blow  of  a  spile  driver's 
hammer,  throwing  a  fountain  of  spray 
high  into  the  air.  For  a  few  seconds 
nothing  was  visible  but  troubled  waters ; 

7 


then  appeared  flapping  wings  and  the 
floundering  shining  body  of  a  big  fish, 
lashing  the  water  into  a  foam,  through 
which  it  was  difficult  to  see  whether  bird 
or  fish  was  on  top.  Suddenly,  both 
disappeared  under  water.  Bige  excit- 
edly yelled,  '*He's  got  his  hooks  into  a 
whale  of  a  fish!  He'll  never  let  go! 
He'll  be  drowned!  Gosh!!'*  Then  he 
rowed  the  boat  nearer  to  the  place  of 
battle.  A  few  heart  beats  later,  and 
the  fight  was  again  on  the  surface. 
Wings  flapped  mightily,  fish  wriggled 
and  twisted  and  again  the  water  was 
churned  into  foam.  We  now  plainly 
saw  the  two  pairs  of  ice- tongs- talons  of 
the  bird,  firmly  clamped  on  the  body  of 
the  pickerel,  which  exceeded  in  length 
(from  head  to  tail)  about  six  inches,  the 
spread  of  wings  from  tip  to  tip.  Wings 
continued  to  pound  air  and  water  but 
the  big  fish  could  not  be  lifted  above 
the  surface.  One  more  desperate  pull 
8 


on  the  pickerers  fin-shaped  oars  and  the 
bird  went  under  water  for  the  third  time, 
but  with  his  wicked  claws  as  firmly 
clamped  into  the  quivering  body  as  ever. 
Coming  to  the  surface  more  quickly  the 
next  time,-  the  osprey  swung  his  head  far 
back,  and"  with  his  ugly  hook  shaped 
beak  struck  the  fish  a  mighty  blow  on 
the  back  of  the  head.  The  pickerel 
shivered,  stiffened,  and  lay  still. 

The  fight  was  over,  but  the  panting 
hawk  still  hung  on  to  his  victim. 

Recovering  his  breath  in  a  few  min- 
utes, the  bird  spread  his  wings  and  with 
much  flapping,  laboriously  towed  the 
dead  fish  along  on  the  water  across  the 
lake,  where  he  dragged  it  up  on  a  sand 
beach.  Here  he  sat  for  a  long  time, 
resting.  Then  with  his  hooked  beak  he 
carved  up  that  pickerel  for  his  stren- 
uously acquired  meal.  I  have  many 
times  seen  hawks  catch  fish,  but  on  all 
other  occasions  they  have  been  able  to 

9 


pick  up  the  struggling  fish  and  fly  away 
with  it.  This  fellow  hooked  onto  a  fish 
so  big  he  could  not  lift  it. 


FOUR  miles  up  the  river  and  about 
five  miles  eastward  over  Bear 
Mountain,  brought  Bige  and  me  to 
''Hotel  Palmer**  on  the  shore  of  Sargent 
Pond.  One  room  and  bath  were  avail- 
able and  we  took  both,  the  latter  in 
the  pond. 

We  had  just  enough  time  to  finish 
supper  before  dark.  The  dishes  had  to 
be  washed  by  lantern  light.  In  the 
middle  of  the  night  we  heard  a  'Torky" 
crawling  over  the  roof,  dragging  his 
heavy  spine  covered  tail  over  the  boards. 
It  sounded  like  the  scraping  of  a  stiflf 
wire  scratch  brush.  We  heard  him  sniff 
and  knew  that  he  was  seeking  the  food 
in  our  pack  basket,  which  his  sensitive 
nose  told  him  was  somewhere  near.    We 

10 


s 

2 

o 

X 


hoped  he  would  become  discouraged  and 
go  away,  but  he  continued  his  explora- 
tions over  our  heads  a  long  time,  inter- 
fering with  our  efforts  to  sleep;  so  a 
lantern  was  lighted  and  we  went  out 
and  threw  sticks  of  wood  and  stones 
at  him. 

The  porcupine  came  down  that  roof 
in  the  same  manner  that  he  comes  down 
a  tree  trunk,  tail  first,  but  the  roof 
boards  were  steep  and  slippery  and  his 
toe  nails  would  not  stick  as  they  do  in 
the  rough  bark  of  a  tree,  so  he  came 
down  hurriedly,  landing  with  a  thud  on 
a  rotten  log  at  the  back  of  the  cabin. 
In  the  morning  we  discovered  that  a  lot 
of  porcupine  quills  were  sticking  ver- 
tically in  the  log  so  that  a  section  of  it 
resembled  an  inverted  scrubbing  brush. 

Hotel  Palmer  was  built  several  years 
ago,  by  George,  Dave  and  Leslie.  When 
the  law  respecting  camps  on  State  lands 
became  effective,  it  was  torn  down.    But 

12 


on  the  occasion  of  the  porcupine  inci- 
dent, it  was  open  for  the  reception  of 
guests  by  permission. 

After  breakfast,  we  found  Dave*s  boat 
hidden  in  the  bushes  in  the  specified 
place.  During  the  day  we  hunted  and 
got  several  partridges  which  we  pro- 
posed to  roast  later.  That  evening  after 
supper,  while  Bige  was  cutting  some  fire- 
wood, I  took  the  boat  and  my  rod  and 
went  out  on  the  pond  to  get  some  trout 
for  breakfast. 

It  was  just  as  the  sun  was  dropping 
below  the  western  hills,  and  there  was 
a  gorgeous  golden  glow  in  the  sky.  The 
breeze  had  dropped  to  a  gentle  zephyr 
that  hardly  caused  a  ripple  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  water,  so  I  allowed  the  boat 
to  slowly  drift  while  I  was  casting.  A 
tree  had  fallen  into  the  pond,  and  sitting 
in  its  branches  near  the  tree  top,  close 
to  the  water  and  about  fifty  feet  from 
the  shore,   I   discovered  a  coon.     He, 

13 


also,  was  fishing,  and  I  was  curious  to 
learn  just  how  he  operated. 

I  soon  found  that  the  coon  was  not 
without  curiosity  since  he,  just  as  eager- 
ly, was  watching  my  operations.  As 
the  boat  slowly  approached  the  treetop 
his  sharp,  beady  eyes  followed  the  move- 
ment of  my  flies  as  the  rod  whipped 
back  and  forth.  It  occured  to  me  that 
he  might  be  seriously  considering  the 
advisability  of  adopting  a  fly  rod  for 
use  in  his  fishing  business. 

Just  as  the  boat  passed  the  treetop 
and  but  a  few  feet  from  it,  a  good  sized 
trout  appeared  at  the  surface  and  with 
a  swirl  and  slap  of  his  tail  grabbed  one 
of  my  flies  and  made  off  with  it  toward 
the  bottom.  Instantly  the  coon  became 
very  excited.  His  body  appeared  tense; 
his  ring-banded  tail  swished  from  side 
to  side;  his  feet  nervously  stepped  up 
and  down  on  the  tree  branch,  like  a 
crouching  cat  who  sees  a   mouse  ap- 

14 


The  Coon 


preaching,  and  his  snapping  eyes  fol- 
lowed the  movement  of  my  line  as  it 
sawed  through  the  water  while  the  fish 
rushed  about,  up  and  down,  under  the 
boat  and  back  again.  And  when  the 
trout  made  a  jump  above  the  surface 
and  shook  himself,  the  coon  seemed  to 
fairly  dance  with  joy.     Presently,  the 

15 


fish,  now  completely  exhausted,  ap- 
peared at  the  surface  lying  on  his  side, 
while  I  was  reeling  in  the  line;  when 
the  coon  slipped  into  the  water,  grabbed 
the  fish  in  his  mouth  and  swam  ashore. 
Climbing  up  the  bank  he  turned,  grinned 
at  me  and  went  into  the  bushes  with  my 
trout,  now  his  trout,  in  his  mouth  and 
about  three  feet  of  leader  trailing  behind. 

BILL  stood  four  feet  three  inches  in 
his  stockings,  and  if  Bill  had  ever 
been  on  a  scale,  he  would  have  tipped  it 
at  seven  pounds  and  six  ounces.  Bill's 
body  was  about  the  size  of  a  white 
leghorn  hen.  He  was  mostly  legs  and 
neck. 

Abe  Lincoln  once  expressed  the  opin- 
ion that  "a  man's  legs  should  be  long 
enough  to  reach  the  ground."  Bill 
was  a  wader  by  inclination  and  of  ne- 
cessity. Long  legs  were,  therefore,  re- 
quired   in    his    business,    and    having 

16 


begun  life  with  a  pair  of  long  legs,  Bill's 
body  was  mounted,  so  to  speak,  on 
stilts,  high  in  the  air,  and  he  found  it 
necessary  to  grow  a  long  neck  so  that 
when  he  presented  his  bill  it  might 
reach  to  the  ground.  This  long  neck 
was  ordinarily  carried  gracefully  looped 
back  above  his  body  in  the  form  of  a 
letter  S.  On  the  rare  occasions  when 
Bill  straightened  this  crooked  neck  of 
his,  it  shot  out  with  the  speed  of  an 
electric  spark,  and  he  never  was  known 
to  miss  the  object  aimed  at. 

At  the  upper  end  of  Bill's  long  neck 
his  small  head  was  secured,  and  from 
it  drooped  an  eight  inch  beak,  which 
opened  and  closed  like  a  pair  of  tailor's 
shears. 

Bill  wore  a  coat  of  the  same  color  as 
a  French  soldier's  uniform  and  his  fam- 
ily name  was  Heron — Blue  Heron.  Bill 
had  cousins  named  Crane  and  he  was 
distantly  related  to  a  fellow  who,  with 

17 


Bill 


queer  family  traditions,  paraded  under 
the  name  of  Stork. 

Bill  did  not  belong  to  the  union;  he 
worked  eighteen  hours  a  day.  His 
operations,  chiefly,  were  conducted  in 
a  shallow  bay  where  a  brook  emptied 
into  the  lake,  directly  opposite  our 
cottage.    There,  Bill  might  be  seen  dur- 

18 


ing  the  season,  in  sunshine  and  in  rain, 
from  long  before  sunrise  until  late  at 
night,  standing  in  the  shallow  water 
near  shore  in  an  attitude  which  he 
copied  from  a  Japanese  fire  screen;  or 
with  Edwin  Booth's  majestic,  tragedian 
stage  tread,  slowly  wading  among  the 
pond  lily  pads  and  pickerel  grass;  lifting 
high  and  projecting  forward  in  long  de- 
liberate strides,  one  foot  after  another; 
each  step  being  carefully  placed  before 
his  weight  was  shifted. 

Though  an  awkward  appearing  per- 
son by  himself,  in  a  landscape  Bill  made 
a  picture  of  symmetry  and  beauty  and 
his  march  was  the  very  poetry  of  motion. 

Bill  had  very  definite  opinions  con- 
cerning boats.  He  knew  that  they  were 
generally  occupied  by  human  animals, 
of  whose  intentions  he  was  always  sus- 
picious. Either  through  experience  or 
inherited  instinct,  he  seemed  to  know 
exactly  how  far  a  shot-gun  would  carry. 

19 


Bige  and  I  never  had  used  one  on  him 
and  we  seldom  had  a  gun  up  our  sleeve 
while  in  a  boat,  but  Bill  never  allowed 
us  to  approach  beyond  the  safety  line. 

Day  after  day  through  many  seasons 
Bill  has  stood  and  observed  our  boat 
cross  the  lake.  Without  moving  an 
eyelash  he  would  watch  our  approach 
until  the  boat  reached  a  certain  definite 
spot  in  the  lake,  when  with  slow  flap  of 
wide  spread  wings  he  lifted  his  long  legs, 
trailing  them  far  behind,  while  he  flew 
up  the  lake  behind  the  island.  As  soon 
as  we  had  passed  about  our  business, 
Bill  always  returned  and  resumed  his 
job  of  fishing  at  the  same  old  stand, 
where  he  "watchfully  waited"  for  some- 
thing to  turn  up. 

Bill  was  the  most  patient  fisherman  I 
ever  knew.  Neither  Mr.  Job  nor  Wood- 
row  Wilson  had  anything  on  Bill.  His 
motto  seemed  to  be,  "all  things  come  to 
him  who  can  afford  to  wait.'' 

20 


Early  in  the  season  Mrs,  Bill  was  busy 
with  household  duties.  With  coarse 
sticks,  brush,  mud  and  moss,  in  the 
dead  branches  of  a  tall  pine,  she  built 
the  family  nest  and  laid  the  family  eggs. 
She  also  sat  upon  those  eggs,  with  her 
long,  spindly  legs  hanging  straight  down- 
ward, one  on  either  side  of  the  nest,  as 
one  might  sit  upon  a  saddle  suspended  in 
mid-air.  When  the  brood  of  young 
herons  were  hatched  and  could  be  left 
alone,  the  mother  also  went  fishing  with 
Bill,  and  toward  the  end  of  the  season 
the  young  birds  were  on  the  job  with 
mother  and  dad. 

One  day  early  in  the  season,  Bige  and 
I  were  crossing  the  lake.  It  was  about 
ten  o'clock.  Bill  had  been  watchfully 
waiting  at  his  old  stand  since  3:30  A.  M. 
One  eye  was  now  turned  on  the  ap- 
proaching boat,  but  the  other  eye  con- 
tinued its  search  of  the  waters  for  the 
long  delayed  morning  meal.    About  this 

21 


time,  a  yellow  perch  who  also  was  hunt- 
ing a  breakfast,  discovered  a  minnow 
who  had  strayed  into  deep  water  far 
from  his  home.  Perchy  immediately 
gave  chase,  while  the  alarmed  minnow 
swiftly  darted  toward  safety  in  his  birth- 
place under  a  clump  of  pickerel  grass 
near  the  shore.  As  they  passed  our 
boat,  the  race  was  headed  straight  for 
a  pair  of  yellow  legs  a  few  rods  away. 

Ten  seconds  later,  a  snake  like  neck 
uncoiled  and  straightened  while  an  open- 
ed pair  of  shears,  with  lightning  speed 
descended  into  the  water.  When  they 
lifted,  the  shears  were  closed  across  the 
body  of  a  half  pound  yellow  perch.  Bill 
thus  held  his  fish  an  instant,  then  tossed 
it  in  the  air  and  it  descended  head  first 
into  his  wide  open  mouth.  A  swelling 
slowly  moving  downward  marked  the 
passage  through  a  long  gullet  into  his 
crop,  of  a  breakfast  that  six  and  a  half 
hours  Bill  had  been  patiently  fishing  for. 

22 


"Sufferin*  Maria!*'  exclaimed  Bige, 
"What  a  lot  of  pleasure  Bill  had  swallow- 
ing that  kicking,  wriggling  morsel  of 
food    down    half    a    yard    of    throat." 

BIGE  and  I  had  been  spending  the 
day  at  Moose  Pond.  Going  over 
early  in  the  morning,  we  went  up  the 
river  about  five  miles,  then  followed  the 
tote-road  around  the  western  side  of 
the  mountain  to  an  abandoned  lumber 
camp  near  the  pond.  This  road  had  not 
been  used  for  lumber  operations  for  ten 
years  or  more,  but  it  still  made  a  good 
foot  path,  though  to  reach  our  destina- 
tion it  led  us  a  long  way  around. 

Returning  late  in  the  afternoon  to 
Buck  Mountain  Camp,  where  we  were 
then  staying,  we  decided  to  go  directly 
over  Moose  Mountain,  by  a  shorter 
route,  though  the  walking  through  the 
lumbered  section  of  the  woods  would 
be   more  difficult.     In   the  bottom  of 

23 


the  valley  between  the  two  mountains, 
we  crossed  West  Bay  Brook.  This 
brook  we  had  fished  three  or  four  miles 
below,  near  where  it  emptied  into  Cedar 
Lake,  but  in  this  section  where  the 
stream  was  small,  overgrown  with  alders 
and  covered  with  "slash"  from  the  lum- 
ber operations,  we  had  not  thought  it 
worth  the  effort. 

There  was  an  elbow  in  the  brook  at 
the  place  where  we  crossed  it,  and  a 
large  tree  lying  across  the  stream  had 
collected  driftwood  and  formed  a  dam 
above  which  was  a  deep  pool  about  thir- 
ty feet  in  diameter.  Looking  down  from 
the  bridge  which  the  west  wind  had  made 
for  us  to  cross  upon,  we  saw  that  the 
pool  was  alive  with  trout.  The  bottom 
seemed  black  with  a  solid  army  forma- 
tion of  fish,  lying  close  together,  sides 
touching,  heads  up  stream ;  while  schools 
of  smaller  trout,  disturbed  by  our  pre- 
sence,  swiftly  swam  around  the  pool 

24 


reflecting  the  bright  sunshine  in  brilli- 
ant rainbow  hues.  The  scene  was  one 
to  arrest  the  attention  of  the  most  cas- 
ual observer,  and  Bige  and  I  lingered 
long  upon  the  bridge  watching  the  move- 
ments of  the  hundreds  of  inhabitants 
of  this  natural  aquarium. 

On  the  way  back  to  camp  we  dis- 
cussed the  possibilities  of  fishing  this 
pool,  deciding  upon  the  best  place  of 
approach,  where  one  could  be  partially 
concealed  by  bushes  while  casting.  We 
spent  all  of  the  following  day  marking 
a  trail  down  the  mountain  and  across 
the  valley,  about  three  miles,  from  camp 
to  the  pool,  cutting  brush  and  clearing 
out  a  path;  then  one  day  when  the 
weather  conditions  were  favorable,  Bige 
went  out  to  headquarters  to  bring  in 
some  food  supplies  and  I,  with  a  fly  rod, 
went  down  over  our  new  trail  to  catch 
a  few  trout  in  a  pool  that  had  never  been 
fished. 

26 


Cautiously  approaching,  when  near 
the  brook,  I  heard  sounds  of  splashing 
in  the  water.  Creeping  on  hands  and 
knees,  then  slowly  on  stomach,  I  reach- 
ed a  position  where,  through  the  bushes, 
the  surface  of  the  pool  came  into  view, 
when,  crawling  up  the  opposite  bank, 
I  saw  a  long,  slender,  shiny,  water  soak- 
ed, fur  coated  body  which  was  sur- 
mounted with  a  cat-like  head;  the  legs 
were  so  short  they  were  invisible  and 
the  body  appeared  to  drag  upon  the 
ground,  while  a  tapering  tail  about  a 
foot  long  followed  in  the  rear.  The 
Otter,  including  tail,  was  about  three 
feet  long  and  he  had  a  trout  in  his  mouth 
which  he  deposited  on  the  ground  and 
immediately  slid  down  the  bank  and 
disappeared  under  the  water.  In  less 
than  a  minute  he  crawled  up  the  bank 
again  with  another  fish  in  his  mouth, 
which  was  dropped  by  the  first  one  and 
the  operation  was  repeated. 

27 


I  do  not  know  how  long  the  otter  had 
been  fishing  when  I  arrived,  but  I  watch- 
ed him  work  fully  fifteen  minutes,  when 
he  came  to  the  surface  without  a  fish. 
He  then  deliberately  surveyed  his  catch, 
appearing  to  gloat  over  it,  after  which 
he  started  down  stream,  tumbling  in 
and  climbing  out  of  the  water  as  far 
as  he  could  be  seen  and  I  heard  him 
several  minutes  after  he  had  gone  out 
of  view. 

Coming  out  of  my  cramped  position 
of  concealment,  I  crossed  over  on  the 
fallen  tree  and  saw  scattered  over  the 
opposite  bank  literally  scores  of  trout, 
large  and  small;  some  had  their  heads 
bitten  off,  others  were  cut  in  half,  all 
were  mutilated.  Obviously,  the  otter 
had  eaten  his  fill  and  then  had  continued 
to  fish  just  for  the  joy  of  killing,  like 
some  other  trout-hogs  in  human  form, 
such  as  we  all  have  met. 

I  went  back  to  camp  that  night  with- 

28 


PE""'*^-.r>SS?«s23s^-^ 


The  Otter 

out  fish.  We  visited  the  pool  later, 
several  times,  but  never  got  a  rise  and 
never  saw  another  trout  in  that  hole. 
The  otter  had  made  a  perfect  and  com- 
plete job  of  it.  There  was  not  left  even 
a  pair  of  trout  for  seed. 


29 


A  TWENTY  inch  pickerel  of  my 
acquaintance,  one  day  swallowed 
his  grandson.  This  was  an  exhibition 
of  bad  judgment  on  the  part  of  Grandad 
Pickerel.  The  mere  fact  of  killing  his 
near  relative  was  not  in  itself  repre- 
hensible, since,  if  all  pickerel  were  not 
cannibals  they  would  soon  exterminate 
from  streams,  ponds,  and  lakes,  fishes 
of  all  other  species.  But  this  particular 
**pick*'  was  a  husky  youngster,  and  while 
he  might  very  properly  have  been  bit- 
ten in  half,  or  have  been  chewed  up 
into  small  pieces,  the  older  fish  got  him- 
self into  trouble  when  he  swallowed  the 
kid  whole. 

A  few  hours  after  the  occurence  men- 
tioned above,  the  elder  pickerel,  at  one 
end  of  a  trolling  line,  climbed  into  our 
boat;  Bige,  who  had  the  other  end  of 
the  line,  assisting  him  aboard. 

"Sufferin'  Mackerel!  Well  by  Gosh!! 
He*s  got  a  rudder  on  both  ends;  he  can 


o 


I 


swim  both  ways  without  turning  around, 
like  a  ferry  boat,"  commented  Bige,  as 
we  examined  the  floundering  big  fish, 
which  had  the  tail  end  of  a  smaller  fish 
protruding  three  inches  beyond  his  snout, 
while  the  head  of  the  younger  was  in 
the  pit  of  the  stomach  of  the  elder 
pickerel. 

I  have  heard  and  read  many  tales, 
illustrating  the  voracious  appetite  of 
pickerel.  Board  man  in  his  book, 
''Lovers  of  the  Woods,**  tells  how  his 
guide,  George,  while  fishing  in  Long 
Lake,  lost  his  Waterbury  watch  over- 
board. Several  days  later,  he  caught 
a  big  pickerel  and  in  dressing  it  found 
his  watch  inside,  still  running.  It  seems 
that  a  leather  thong  attached  to  the 
watch  was  wrapped  around  the  winding 
crown  and  the  other  end  of  the  thong 
was  looped  over  the  fish*s  lower  jaw 
and  hooked  onto  his  teeth,  so  that  when- 
ever the  pickerel  opened  and  closed  his 

32 


mouth  the  watch  was  wound  half  a 
turn,  and  thus  was  kept  running. 

Not  being  an  eye-witness,  my  testi- 
mony regarding  this  incident  would  not 
be  accepted  in  a  court  of  law.  However, 
I  have  known  pickerel  to  swallow  frogs, 
crawfish,  mice,  sunfish  and  yellow  perch 
with  their  prickly  dorsal  fins,  young  shell- 
drakes  and  gulls,  and  even  bull-heads 
having  three  rigid  horns  with  needle 
points  projecting  at  right  angles  to  the 
body,  any  one  of  which  horns,  it  would 
seem,  might  pierce  the  anatomy  of  the 
pickerel.  Somehow,  they  appear  to  get 
away  with  all  these  things,  and  more. 

The  pickerel  has  a  large  mouth  and  a 
multitude  of  teeth  on  both  upper  and 
lower  jaws,  in  the  roof  of  his  mouth, 
also  on  tongue  and  palate.  These  teeth 
are  long  and  sharp  and  they  slope  in- 
ward; some  of  them  also  bend  down  to 
allow  objects  to  pass  into  the  throat, 
but   they   effectually   prevent   ejecting 

as 


anything  that  has  been  swallowed.  So, 
Grandad  Pickerel,  if  he  had  regrets 
after  swallowing  a  member  of  his  own 
family,  found  it  impossible  to  throw 
him  up,  as  the  Good  Book  says  the 
whale  cast  up  Jonah. 

Bige  and  I  found  we  could  not  sepa- 
rate the  two  fishes  without  first  per- 
forming a  surgical  operation.  In  doing 
so,  we  also  released  a  shiner  which  had 
been  swallowed  with  Bige's  trolling  hook 
and  was  wedged  in  the  throat  alongside 
the  smaller  pickerel.  This  was  the  most 
amazing  part  of  the  incident,  and  proves 
the  gluttonous  character  of  the  pick- 
erel and  his  complete  inability  to  ap- 
preciate the  limits  of  his  own  capacity. 

We  found  upon  examination  that  the 
process  of  digestion  was  operating,  and 
that  the  head  of  the  smaller  pickerel 
was  nearly  dissolved  in  the  stomach  of 
the  larger  fish.  Another  hour,  and 
grandson  would  have  slipped  down  an 

34 


inch  and  the  process  of  digestion  would 
have  been  repeated  upon  another  section. 

A  white  man  cuts  his  fire  wood  the 
proper  length  to  use  in  his  fireplace. 
An  Indian  puts  one  end  of  a  long  branch 
or  sapling  into  his  fire,  and  when  it  has 
burned  off,  he  moves  the  stick  in  and 
burns  off  another  section,  thus  con- 
serving labor. 

Our  pickerel  was  digesting  his  food 
Indian  fashion,  or,  so  to  speak,  on  the 
installment  plan. 

BIGE  and  I  were  hunting.  I  was 
placed  on  a  "runway"  on  the  bank 
of  a  small  stream  which  was  the  outlet 
of  Minnow  Pond.  Bige  had  gone  around 
to  the  opposite  side  of  the  mountain 
and  planned  to  come  up  over  the  top 
and  follow  the  deer  path  which  ran 
down  the  mountain  side,  into  and 
through  an  old  log-road  which  had  not 
been  used  for  lumber  operations  for  fif- 

35 


teen  years,  and  which  was  now  over- 
grown with  bushes  and  young  spruce 
and  balsam  trees.  This  log- road  fol- 
lowed the  windings  of  the  brook  down 
the  valley  to  where  it  emptied  into  the 
lake,  and  where  the  logs  were  dumped 
into  the  water  and  floated  down  to  the 
mill. 

Many  years  ago,  when  it  was  the 
practice  to  hunt  with  dogs,  the  deer 
acquired  the  habit  of  running  to  the 
nearest  water,  where,  by  wading  or 
swimming  they  could  throw  the  dogs 
off  the  scent.  Thus  all  deer  trails  or 
run-ways  lead,  sooner  or  later,  to  a 
stream,  a  pond  or  lake,  where  the  deer 
has  a  chance  of  evading  pursuit  of  his 
natural  enemy.  Now,  while  the  game 
laws  forbid  hunting  deer  with  dogs,  and 
while  dogs  are  not  allowed  to  enter  for- 
ests inhabited  by  deer,  yet  the  inherited 
instinct  of  self-preservation  of  the  latter 
persists,  and  whenever  alarmed  by  the 

36 


appearance  of  man,  who  in  the  mind  of 
a  deer  is  still  associated  with  his  other 
enemy — the  dog,  he  immediately  starts 
down   his   trail   to   the   nearest  water. 

It  was  Bige's  hope  to  *'scare  up'*  a 
deer  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain 
and  drive  him  down  the  run-way  past 
my  watch  ground,  while  it  was  my  job 
to  shoot  him  as  he  passed  by. 

The  fallen  tree  on  which  I  sat  was 
on  the  bank  of  the  brook  and  about  ten 
feet  above  the  water,  while  in  the  oppo- 
site direction,  through  an  open  space  in 
the  bushes,  I  had  a  clear  view  of  the  run- 
way about  twenty  yards  distant. 

Time  passes  slowly  in  the  woods,  when 
one  is  waiting  for  something  to  turn  up. 
Also,  it  is  essential  that  one  sit  quietly 
and  make  very  few  false  motions  when 
watching  for  a  deer  to  approach.  I  had 
been  sitting,  with  rifle  across  knees,  what 
seemed  a  long  time.  The  noises  of  the 
woods  which  suddenly  cease  when  one 

37 


walks  through  the  forest,  gradually  re- 
turned. A  wood-pecker  started  up  his 
electric  hammer  and  resumed  the  opera- 
tion of  drilling  a  deep  hole  into  a  pine 
stub  a  few  rods  away.  A  blue- jay  made 
some  sarcastic  remarks  about  "Caleb" 
and  then  began  swinging  on  his  gate 
and  creaking  its  rusty  hinges.  A  red 
squirrel  overhead,  made  unintelligible, 
but  evidently  derisive  remarks  about  the 
intrusion  of  strangers,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  cut  off  spruce  cones  and  tried 
to  drop  them  on  my  head.  A  king- 
fisher flew  up  the  brook  and  shook  a 
baby's  tin  rattle  at  me  as  he  passed.  An 
old  hen  partridge  down  the  log-road  was 
advising  her  children  to  **Quit!  Quit! 
Quit!"  but  her  chicks,  who  were  now 
more  than  half  grown,  paid  not  the 
slightest  attention  to  her  warning  but 
continued  picking  blue-berries  just  as 
if  there  were  no  enemies  within  a  hun- 
dred miles.  An  owl  on  the  limb  of  a  tall 
38 


birch  demanded,  in  stentorian  voice,  to 

know  "Who?  Who?  Who  in " 

Another  fellow,  way  down  the  valley 
responded  that  he  "could!**,  that  he  had 
a  chip  on  his  shoulder  and  that  if  any 
blanked  owl  knocked  it  off  he  "Would 

Who?  Who  in are  you  anyhow?** 

Thus  the  belligerents  fought  their  battle 
at  long  range  with  language,  like  many 
other  pugilists.  A  rabbit,  who  in  another 
month  would  throw  off  his  brown  vest 
and  put  on  his  white  winter  overcoat, 
went  loping  past,  stopping  occasionally 
to  nip  off  a  wintergreen  leaf.  These,  and 
other  sounds  indicating  various  activi- 
ties of  wood  folk,  continued  to  divert 
attention  while  two  hours  passed. 

The  "Yap,  Yap,**  of  a  red  fox  sounded 
down  the  brook.  A  few  minutes  later 
his  voice  was  heard  again,  nearer;  pres- 
ently he  came  into  view.  He  was  wad- 
ing in  the  shallow  water  of  the  brook, 
eyes  intently  fixed  upon  the  water,  fol- 

39 


lowing  a  school  of  minnows.  Stepping 
high  and  cautiously,  he,  from  time  to 
time,  suddenly  jabbed  his  muzzle  into 
the  water  and  brought  up  a  fish  from 
two  to  three  inches  long,  which  he  chew- 
ed and  swallowed  with  seeming  satis- 
faction. When  he  missed,  which  hap- 
pened often,  he  repeated  his  impatient 
*'Yap,  Yap'*  and  moved  up  stream 
where  was  another  bunch  of  minnows. 

This  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen 
a  fox  fishing  and  I  was  intensely  inter- 
ested in  his  operations.  About  this  time, 
I  heard  a  commotion  in  the  bushes  be- 
hind me,  and  turned  in  time  to  see  the 
horns  and  white  tail  of  a  deer  over  the 
tops  of  the  bushes  as  he  bounded  along 
down  the  runway.  I  heard  him  for  a 
full  minute,  still  going  strong  down  to- 
ward the  lake. 

Five  minutes  later  Bige  appeared, 
coming  down  the  path  gently  demand- 
ing,  ''Why   in   time  didn't  you    shoot 

40 


that  deer?  IVe  been  following  him  for 
an  hour.  Fresh  tracks  all  the  way. 
Heard  him  twice.  He  went  right  by 
here,  kicked  up  the  dirt  at  every  jump. 
You  won't  get  a  better  shot  in  ten  years. 
What  in  tunket  were  you  doing  anyhow?'* 
'Who,  me?  Why-M  was  fishing.'* 

^'TJUTTERMILK  FALLS"  is  one 
JL^  of  the  show  places  in  our  neck 
of  the  woods.  The  guide  books  make 
mention  of  it,  and  the  tourist  and  "one 
week  boarder"  see  it  first.  Also,  when 
one  tires  of  fishing,  of  mountain  climb- 
ing, of  tramping,  and  is  in  need  of  some 
new  form  of  diversion,  there  is  always 
"somethin'  doin'  at  the  falls."  In  the 
presence  of  their  majestic  beauty,  and 
in  the  roar  of  their  falling,  tumbling, 
foaming  waters,  deer  seem  to  lose  their 
natural  timidity  and  often,  in  mid-day, 
show  themselves  in  the  open  to  drink 
of  the  waters  at  the  foot  of  the  falls  and 

41 


to  drink  in  the  beauty  of  the  picture. 
In  the  course  of  my  wanderings  in  the 
forests,  I  have  often  observed,  in  spots 
that  are  particularly  wild  or  picturesque, 
or  that  have  an  extensive  outlook,  evi- 
dences that  deer  have  stood  there,  per- 
haps stamping  or  pawing  the  ground 
for  hours  at  a  time,  while  they  enjoyed 
the  view.  Such  evidence  points  to  the 
theory  that  wild  deer  not  only  have  an 
eye  for  the  beautiful  in  nature,  but  that 
they  manifest  good  taste  in  their  choice 
of  a  picture. 

One  day  two  black  bears  were  seen 
feeding  on  the  bank  of  the  river  just 
above  the  falls.  A  family  of  beavers 
have  built  a  house  about  a  hundred 
yards  below  the  falls  and  have  made  sev- 
eral unsuccessful  attempts  to  dam  the 
rapids,  in  which  operations  about  an 
acre  of  alder  bushes  have  been  cut  and 
dragged  into  position,  only  to  be  carried 
down  stream  by  the  swift  waters.    This 

42 


is  the  only  family  of  beavers  I  ever  met 
who  are  not  good  engineers. 

There  is  also  the  typical  tale  of  the 
^*big  trout — a  perfect  monster  of  a  fish,*' 
that  lives  in  the  deep  pool  under  the 
falls.  Scores  of  people  have  "seen  him;" 
every  guide  and  every  fisherman  who 
has  visited  this  region  has  tried  to  catch 
the  "wise  old  moss-back.*'  Several  times 
he  has  been  hooked,  but  the  stories  of 
lost  leaders  and  broken  tackle  that  have 
been  told  would  fill  a  volume,  and  he 
still  lives. 

Also,  the  falls  are  not  without  their 
romance.  Tradition,  dating  back  to  the 
Indian  occupation,  perhaps  a  hundred 
and  fifty  years  ago,  tells  of  a  beautiful 
Indian  maiden  who  was  wont  to  meet 
her  lover  at  midnight  when  the  moon 
was  full,  at  a  spot  just  above  the  falls. 
Coming  down  the  river  in  her  birch- 
bark  canoe,  the  maiden  would  await 
the  arrival  of  the  young  warrior,  who 

43 


was  of  another  and  a  hostile  tribe,  liv- 
ing the  other  side  of  the  mountain. 
When  the  moonlight  shadow  of  the  tall 
pine  fell  upon  a  particular  spot  on  the 
big  rock,  the  ardent  lover  arrived,  guided 
through  the  dark  and  trackless  forest 
by  the  roar  of  the  falls,  which  could  be 
heard  beyond  the  mountain  top. 

Of  course  the  chief,  the  girl's  father, 
objected  to  the  attentions  of  this  enemy 
lover,  as  also  did  other  and  rival  admir- 
ers of  her  own  tribe. 

On  a  mid-summer  night  the  lovers 
parted,  he  to  go  on  a  mission  to  Mon- 
treal, which  then  involved  a  long,  diffi- 
cult and  dangerous  tramp  through  the 
wilderness.  Both  were  pledged  to  meet 
again  at  the  falls  at  midnight  of  the 
harvest-moon.  As  the  shadow  of  the 
September  moon  fell  upon  the  midnight 
mark  on  the  big  rock,  the  Indian  maid 
arrived  in  her  canoe,  but  the  lover  came 
not.    Instead,  appeared  one  of  the  rival 

44 


warriors  of  her  own  tribe,  who  told  of 
an  ambush,  of  a  poisoned  arrow  and  of 
a  dead  lover. 

The  heart-broken  maid  then  drifted 
out  into  midstream  and  with  her  canoe 
passed  over  the  falls  and  was  killed  on 
the  rocks  below.  Tradition  goes  on  to 
relate  how,  at  midnight  of  every  harvest 
moon  since  that  tragic  event,  the  ghost 
of  the  beautiful  Indian  maiden  appears 
in  her  birch  bark  canoe  and  sails  over 
Buttermilk  Falls,  disappearing  in  the 
foaming  waters  at  their  foot. 

For  many  years  I  have  tried  to  per- 
suade Bige  to  join  me  in  keeping  the 
date  with  this  ghost,  but  up  to  the  pre- 
sent writing  it  has  never  been  conven- 
ient. 

Sitting,  one  day,  at  the  foot  of  the 
falls,  I  was  studying  the  high-water 
marks  on  the  adjacent  rocks,  indicating 
the  immense  volume  of  waters  that  pass 
over  the  falls  and  down  the  rapids  dur- 

46 


ing  the  freshets  caused  by  melting  snows 
and  spring  rains,  trying  to  imagine  how 
it  might  look  on  such  occasions,  when 
a  million  logs,  the  cut  of  the  lumbermen 
during  the  previous  winter,  were  let  loose 
and  came  crowding,  climbing,  jamming, 
tumbling  over  one  another  down  through 
the  ravine  and  over  the  brink  with  the 
mighty  rushing  waters. 

The  ground  about  where  I  sat  was 
strewn  with  rocks,  boulders  and  smaller 
stones,  all  worn  by  the  ceaseless  action 
of  the  waters,  many  of  them  smooth, 
others  seamed  with  strata  of  quartz, 
granite  or  sandstone,  some  curiously 
marked  and  grotesque  in  shape. 

As  I  sat  thus,  meditating,  one  of  these 
curiously  marked  stones,  about  the  size 
and  shape  of  one  of  those  steel  trench 
hats  worn  by  the  * 'doughboys"  in  the 
late  war,  which  had  been  lying  close  to 
the  edge  of  the  water  and  partly  in  it, 
suddenly  jumped  up  and  appeared  to 

47 


stand  on  four  legs  about  six  inches  higher 
than  it  had  been  lying.  The  legs  seemed 
to  be  stiff  and  the  movement  was  like 
the  rising  of  a  disappearing  cannon  be- 
hind the  walls  of  a  fort.  Instantly  there 
appeared  a  fifth  leg  or  brace  at  the  back 
which  pushed  the  rear  edge  of  the  trei^ch 
hat  upward  and  tilted  it  toward  the 
water,  when  a  telescopic  gun  shot  out 
from  under  this  curious  fighting  machine 
and  plunged  into  the  water.  An  instant 
later  this  telescopic  gun  lifted  a  small 
trout  out  of  the  water,  bit  it  in  half,  and 
with  two  snaps  swallowed  it.  The  tele- 
scope then  collapsed,  the  gun-carriage 
slowly  settled  back,  the  tail  brace  curled 
up  under  the  rear,  the  head  was  drawn 
under  the  front  of  the  shell,  and  the 
turtle's  eyes  closed  to  a  narrow  slit. 
Again  he  looked  like  the  stones  among 
which  he  lay,  but  his  trap  was  set  for 
another  fish. 

In  a  few  minutes  another  young  trout 

48 


strayed  too  close  to  the  shore  and  the 
operation  was  repeated.  The  manoeu- 
ver,  though  awkward,  was  swift  and 
every  time  a  fish  was  landed. 

The  turtle  is  a  good  swimmer  and  he 
remains  under  water  a  long  time.  He 
doubtless  also  catches  fish  while  swim- 
ming. This,  however,  was  the  first  time 
I  saw  him  fishing  from  the  shore. 

SALMON  RIVER  is  a  swift  flowing 
stream  having  an  average  width  of 
fifty  feet,  narrowing  as  it  passes  through 
gorges  and  having  a  number  of  wide, 
deep  pools  in  w^hich  the  larger  trout 
collect. 

I  have  made  diligent  inquiry  as  to 
the  reason  for  this  name,  and  have  ar- 
rived at  the  conclusion  that  it  was  called 
Salmon  River  because  there  were  never 
any  salmon  in  it,  but  there  should  be. 

About  three  miles  up  stream,  the  bea- 
vers have  built  a  dam  across  it,  backing 

50 


the  water  up  through  a  swampy  section 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  flooding  both 
banks  of  the  river  through  the  woods, 
thus  creating  a  fair  sized  artificial  pond. 

Bige  and  I  decided  that  this  would 
be  a  good  place  to  fish,  but  that  it  would 
be  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  reach 
the  deep  water  of  the  channel  without 
a  boat.  So  it  was  arranged  that  Bige 
should  take  the  basket  containing  food 
and  cooking  utensils  up  over  the  tote- 
road,  leave  it  at  the  beaver  dam,  then 
go  on  to  Wolf  Pond  where  we  had  left 
one  of  our  boats,  and  carry  the  boat 
back  through  the  woods  to  the  dam 
where  I  should  meet  him  about  three 
hours  later. 

In  order  to  make  use  of  the  time  on 
my  hands,  I  put  on  my  wading  pants 
and  hob-nailed  shoes  and  proceeded  to 
wade  up  stream,  making  a  cast  occa- 
sionally where  a  likely  spot  appeared.  It 
was  a  wonderful  morning.  The  weather 

51 


conditions  were  exactly  right  for  such 
an  expedition.  I  passed  many  spots 
that  would  have  delighted  the  soul  of 
an  artist.  He,  probably,  would  have 
taken  a  week  to  cover  the  distance  I 
expected  to  travel  in  three  hours. 

I  had  gone  more  than  half  way  to  the 
dam,  had  a  few  fish  in  my  creel,  and  was 
approaching  an  elbow  in  the  stream. 
A  high  point  of  land  covered  with  bushes 
shut  off  my  view  of  a  deep  pool  just 
around  the  corner,  in  which  I  had  many 
times  caught  trout.  As  I  came  near 
this  bend  in  the  river  a  most  extra- 
ordinary thing  occured.  I  distinctly  saw 
a  fish  flying  through  the  air  over  the 
top  of  the  clump  of  bushes  on  the  point. 
A  flying  fish  is  not  an  unheard-of  thing, 
indeed  I  have  seen  them  several  times, 
but  not  in  the  mountains,  not  in  these 
woods,  where  there  are  fresh  waters  only. 
Flying  fish  of  the  kind  I  know  about  are 
met  in  the  Sound  and  in  bays  near  the 

52 


> 

s 

c: 
o 
S 

CO 

ho 

c 


ocean.  Also,  the  fish  I  just  then  had 
seen  flying  above  the  bushes,  did  not 
have  the  extended  wing-like  fins  of  the 
orthodox  flyer.  This  fish  was  a  trout. 
I  had  seen  enough  of  them  to  feel  sure 
of  that.  True,  I  had  seen  trout  jump 
out  of  the  water,  for  a  fly  or  to  get  up 
over  a  waterfall ;  but  I  never  before  saw 
a  trout  climb  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  into 
the  air,  over  the  tops  of  bushes  and 
young  trees  and  land  on  the  bank. 

This  was  surely  a  matter  that  requir- 
ed explanation.  An  investigation  was 
necessary,  and  without  hesitation  I  as- 
sumed the  role  of  sleuth.  Carefully  step- 
ping out  of  the  water,  I  sat  on  a  rock 
and  took  off  my  wading  togs,  then  on 
stockinged  feet  and  on  hands  and  knees 
crept  up  the  bank.  Peering  through  the 
bushes,  I  saw  that  since  my  last  visit 
a  large  birch  tree  had  fallen  across  the 
pool  and  that  the  trunk  of  this  tree  was 
partly  submerged.    Sitting  on  this  fallen 

54 


tree  over  the  center  of  the  pool  was  a 
large  black  bear.  Her  back  was  toward 
me,  and  she  was  in  a  stooping  posture, 
holding  one  fore  paw  down  in  the  water. 
I  was  just  in  time  to  see  a  sudden  move- 
ment of  the  submerged  paw  and  to  see 
another  trout,  about  twelve  inches  long, 
go  sailing  through  the  air  and  fall  behind 
some  bushes  just  beyond  where  I  was 
in  hiding.  Rustling  and  squealing 
sounds  coming  from  the  direction  in 
which  the  fish  had  gone,  indicated  that 
a  pair  of  cubs  were  behind  the  bushes, 
and  that  they  were  scrapping  over  pos- 
session of  the  fish  their  mother  had  toss- 
ed up  to  them.  It  was,  perhaps,  ten 
minutes  later  I  saw  a  third  trout  fly  over 
the  bushes  toward  the  cubs.  About  this 
time  the  bear  turned  her  head,  sniffed 
the  air  in  my  direction,  and  with  a  low 
growl  and  a  ''Whoof,'*  started  briskly 
for  shore,  climbed  the  bank,  collected  the 
two  cubs  and  made  off  into  the  woods, 

55 


smashing  brush  and  fallen  limbs  of  trees, 
occasionally  pausing  to  send  back,  in 
her  own  language,  a  remark  indicating 
her  disapproval  of  the  party  who  had 
interrupted  her  fishing  operations. 

The  mystery  of  the  flying  trout  was 
now  solved,  but  a  new  conundrum  was 
presented  to  my  enquiring  mind ;  name- 
ly, how  did  the  old  lady  catch  them? 
With  what  did  the  bear  bait  her  hooks? 

I  have  told  the  story  to  many  guides 
and  woodsmen  of  my  acquaintance,  and 
from  them  have  sought  an  answer  to 
the  question.  Bige  expressed  the  opin- 
ion that  the  bear  dug  worms,  wedged 
them  in  between  her  toe-nails,  and  when 
the  fish  nibbled  the  worms  the  bear 
grabbed  him.  Frank  referred  to  the 
well  known  pungent  odor  of  the  bear, 
especially  of  his  feet,  the  tracks  made  by 
which  a  dog  can  smell  hours,  or  even 
days  after  the  bear  has  passed.  He 
said  that  fish  are  attracted  by  the  odor. 

56 


Also  that  many  years  ago,  he  had  caught 
fish  by  putting  oil  of  rhodium  on  the  bait, 
and  that  "fish  could  smell  it  clear  across 
the  pond/*  Frank  admitted  that  this 
method  of  fishing  was  not  sportsman- 
like and  that  he  had  discontinued  the 
practice.  George  said  he  had  many 
times  watched  trout  in  a  pool  rub  their 
sides  against  moss  covered  stones  and 
often  settle  down  upon  the  moss  and 
rest  there.  He  opined  that  they  mistook 
the  fur  on  the  bear's  paw  for  a  particu- 
larly desirable  variety  of  moss,  and  so 
were  caught. 

At  this  point  in  my  investigations,  I 
was  reminded  that  a  few  years  ago  there 
was  conducted,  in  the  columns  of  several 
fishing  and  hunting  magazines,  a  very 
serious  discussion  of  the  question,  *'Can 
fish  be  caught  by  tickling?*'  Many  con- 
tributors took  part  in  this  discussion. 
There  were  advocates  of  both  positive 
and  negative  side  of  the  question.    My 

57 


old  friend  Hubbard,  an  expert  fisherman, 
of  wide  experience,  assured  me  that  he, 
many  years  ago,  had  discarded  the  land- 
ing net;  that  when  he  hooked  a  lake 
trout,  a  bass  or  a  ''musky,*'  and  had 
played  his  fish  until  it  was  so  exhausted 
that  it  could  be  reeled  in  and  led  up 
alongside  the  boat,  it  was  his  practice 
to  ''gently  insert  his  hand  in  the  water 
under  the  fish  and  tickle  it  on  the 
the  stomach,  when  the  fish  would  settle 
down  in  his  hand  and  go  to  sleep,  then 
he  would  lift  it  into  the  boat." 

This  testimony  took  me  back  in  mem- 
ory to  a  time,  many  years  ago,  at  a 
little  red  school  house  on  the  hill,  in 
a  New  England  country  school  district, 
where  my  young  ideas  took  their  first 
lessons  in  shooting.  "Us  fellers"  then 
looked  upon  boys  of  twelve  and  thirteen 
years  as  the  "big  boys"  of  the  school. 
We  still  believed  in  Santa  Claus,  and 
we  knew  that  a  bird  could  not  be  caught 

68 


without  first  '^putting  salt  on  its  tail.*' 
A  brook  crossed  the  road  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  and  ran  down  through  farmer 
Barnum's  pasture.  In  this  brook,  dur- 
ing the  noon  recess  and  after  school  had 
closed  for  the  day,  with  trousers  rolled 
up  and  with  bare  feet,  we  waded  and 
fished.  We  caught  them  with  our  hands, 
and  we  kept  them  alive.  Each  boy  had 
his  ''spring  hole,**  scooped  out  of  the 
sand  near  the  edge  of  the  stream,  in 
which  he  kept  the  fish  caught.  Of 
course,  whenever  it  rained,  and  the 
water  rose  in  the  brook,  these  spring 
holes  were  washed  away  and  the  fish 
escaped.  But  when  the  waters  sub- 
sided, they  had  to  be  caught  again. 
Sometimes,  we  caught  a  chub  as  much 
as  four  inches  long;  and  on  rare  occa- 
sions, when  a  ''horned  dace,  a  five  inch- 
er**  was  secured,  the  boy  who  got  him 
was  a  hero.  It  was  the  firm  conviction 
of  every  boy  in  our  gang,  that,  no  matter 
60 


how  securely  a  fish  was  cornered  be- 
tween the  twa  hands  and  behind  and 
under  a  sod  or  stone,  he  could  not  safely 
be  lifted  out  of  the  water  without  first 
''tickling  him  on  the  belly." 

Reverting  to  the  suggestion  made  by 
Bige.  There  would  be  no  doubt  as  to 
the  bear's  ability  to  dig  worms.  She  is 
an  expert  digger,  carries  her  garden  tools 
with  her.  She  has  been  known  to  dig 
a  hole  under  a  stump  or  rock,  six  or 
eight  feet  deep,  in  which  she  sleeps  all 
winter.  I  have,  myself,  seen  a  bear  dig 
wild  turnips  and  have  seen  rotten  sturnps 
and  logs  torn  to  bits  by  their  claws; 
which  was  done  in  a  hunt  for  grubs. 
I  therefore  felt  certain  that  if  the  bear 
dug  any  worms  she  would  not  use  them 
for  fish  bait,  but  would  herself  eat  them. 

With  a  judicial  attitude  of  mind,  con- 
sidering all  the  evidence  submitted,  in- 
cluding my  own  early  experience,  I  have 
arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  the  trout 

61     . 


was  first  attracted  by  the  odor  of  the 
bear's  paw,  then  rubbed  against  the  soft 
fur,  when  the  bear  wiggled  her  toes  and 
tickled  the  fish  on  his  belly,  whereupon 
the  trout  settled  down  in  the  bear's 
paw,  went  to  sleep  and  was  tossed  up 
on  the  shore  to  the  waiting  cubs. 


62 


H 
s* 

o 
o 

O 

d 
w 

o 


I 


I 


^      & 


P- 


! 

PL 


^•^:^-^*vl.4^..J-,:,^,    f     ;^,,^^ 


TJ^fWM}*-'-^ 


'**««^^^X.H'^^5.:rv 


,  .„.^  j 


,i,fimmil!^s  '^i!>  ■  ■  •'— «.*,>/ig^*- 


